Tenet is both Nolan’s best and worst work to date. The best, because the film is his first earnest embrace of his hollow box, his first explicit love letter to emptiness. But it is also the worst, because it is precisely those remnants of content which ultimately condemn the film to its defeat. Nolan is the formalist who dared not speak his name, a manqué mannerist, afraid that the day of his outing would also be his last. The pornographer who would not make porn: this is Tenet’s formula.